


Paperweight (wondering what's on your mind)

by hurricaneharmony



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, CS Secret Santa, F/M, Office AU, Writer!Killian, writers au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneharmony/pseuds/hurricaneharmony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I think we make quite the team," he'd said. And, albeit reluctantly, she had to agree.</i>
</p><p>Emma Swan can't seem to escape Killian Jones. He's charming and brilliant and endlessly aggravating, and despite being hired as an editor for all of the New York Writers Society, she's somehow found herself working as Killian's personal editor.</p><p>Killian has watched his words come to life under Emma's magic. She's taught him to fill in plot holes, to plan before he writes, to create characters that make you <i>feel</i>. Emma knows exactly how to use words. So why is she editing, and not writing? They both know that words are powerful- so what's holding her back from using hers?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paperweight (wondering what's on your mind)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my CS Secret Santa gift to the lovely alpha-hydrae on Tumblr. Hope you like! This bit is a prologue, of sorts. It's short- but more is coming soon!
> 
> Title is from the beautiful song Paperweight by Joshua Radin and Schuyler Fisk. Have a listen, it's so pretty!

The New York Writers Society is a madhouse. A comfortable asylum consisting of 28 offices surrounding a long conference room, where the writers and editors  
gather in a sarcastic or silent, socially anxious mass of fidgeting fingers and pens scratching at notepads while their employer, known only as Granny,  
gives her morning motivational speech.

_(“This is your story to tell, people.” “Just let the words fall out.” “Doctors don’t get doctor’s block. Why should we tolerate writer’s block?”)_

The office is inhabited with misfits and recluses who take the artistic liberty to personalize their small cubicles. Ruby, who reckons herself a ” female Nicholas Sparks”, writes romance novels by candlelight with a quill and ink in an office that she’d converted into a cave- unscrewing all the lightbulbs, covering the windows,spilling black coffee on her papers in the dark. Belle, the most soft-spoken person in the Society, converted her space into a frilly, pastel-coloured haven where she writes articles that ooze sarcasm for the feminist columns of the New York Times and Huffington Post. And Victor, the nonfiction writer, has nothing but a ridiculous, king-sized mammoth of a bed in his office that leaves literally no floor space. He walks in and crawls onto the mattress, where he lies with his laptop on his chest and types with T-Rex arms. 

Emma multitasks. She was hired as an editor for the Society, but also writes film and music reviews and book recommendations for the Society’s blog. The writers come to her for proofreading and advice, and she’s spent hours discussing the emotional significance of household items with David the poet, or seriously debating _"is the boy hot enough?"_ with his fiancé, young adult novelist Mary Margaret. But more than often, she’ll go days without another writer seeking her out. That is, except for Killian. 

Jones had been unavoidable since her first day. He’d toss paper airplanes over the divider between their offices, tap morse code through the wall. He’d phone her from the other side of the barrier, and she’d pick up in her business tone before nearly hanging up when she recognized his voice. 

_(One of their first interactions:_

_“Emma Swan, can I help you?”_

_"Swan-" she rolled her eyes, "-I just saw a massive spider crawl under the divider to your side. Just thought I’d send over the warning."_

_"And you didn’t kill it?"_

_"Well, I was hoping you would.")_

He’d come to her with handfuls of lined paper and napkins and receipts, all covered in ideas and metaphors- with no way to tie them together. She’d force him to use plot organizers, scoff at his archetypal characters, help him work his beautiful mess into order. 

“We make a good team.” He’d said in a particularly victorious moment after reading the final copy of his first novel. She had to agree. 

Somewhere around her sixth month of employment, Emma became officially regarded as Killian’s editor. She’s still available for the others, of course- but it just makes sense. Her office is already beside his, and she’s always busy providing him with her _full-time_ assistance. And now, her name is in the fine-print of three of his novels. 

Emma deserves a raise. 

This is what it is to work for the hurricane that is Killian Jones: 

Juggling two double-doubles every morning as she hikes up four flights of stairs (the elevator is broken- always has been- and they’ve given up hope of getting it fixed). 

Switching between three different pairs of headphones as she reads his work, trying to drown out his muttering from the next cubicle over. 

She fixes the rare spelling error, and replaces his common dictionary words (sesquipedalian words) with ones that people can understand (honestly, the man used the words _loquacious, idiosyncratic_ , and _magnanimous_ in a childrens’ novel. _All on one page_.), leaving snarky red text in the margins of his notebook. 

Working for Jones is an overdose of words. Beautiful, terrible words that never fail to surprise her, when it finally strikes her that they came from _him._

Jones, with his wild, dark hair and smiling eyes and eye-roll inducing perma-smirk. Who always pinches out his contacts around the time their pizzas arrive, and leaves with thick-rimmed glasses and his sweaters pushed up to his elbows. A man who looks that good shouldn’t be brilliant, too. It’s just not _right_ _._ The beauty and talent and wisdom of the world should be spread out equally, not dumped on one man so others are lacking. 

Not that she _notices_ any of that. She just has an editor’s eye- a natural inclination for detail- and a writer’s appreciative eye for art and beauty. She just spends far too much time with him, far too much time in his work and words and mind. Especially this week, with the two of them alone in the office over the Christmas break. He’s been rolling his desk chair- his primary method of transportation- back and forth down the hallway, pushing his feet off of one wall, swiveling as he flies past her office, then repeating off the other wall. He plugged his iPod into the conference room speakers to blast some festive acapella group through the whole office. He’s been humming along endlessly, rolling into her cubicle one day with candy canes, the next a mug and carton of eggnog, then a DVD of _I_ _t’s a Wonderful Life_. Each time she’d send his 100-watt grin out with an incredulous look that insisted that he get back to work. He’s just called to announce that all of these distractions contribute to his _“creative juices”_ , and she’s just rolled her eyes and decided that she needs a break. She’s about to stand and trek across the floor for her third coffee today- when the phone rings. 

“I should go.” He says flatly, the moment she picks up. 

“He mumbled, his boots leaving heavy black marks on the floor.” She replies. 

They do this often. Talking through the divider or the phone- not to each other, but to his notebook. Not as themselves, but as his characters. Speaking in dialogue tags and adverbs and British slang, because _of course_ all his characters grew up somewhere in England. 

Even with all of his plot planners, she never knows what he’ll say in moments like these. He’d always struggled with writing dialogue, as noted by literary critics reviewing his first two books- until she’d suggested practicing with actual conversation. And once it caught, once the critics gave his third book, Melody, glowing reviews- he never stopped. The miracle of his dialogue is that it is completely composed on a whim- decided entirely on the spot on each end of the phone line, and scribbled down live-action. 

“I shouldn’t be here.” He says. “I don’t belong-” 

“You should. You do.” 

“Love, I-” 

“Just, please. _Stay._ " She cuts him off, and waits for his response. 

He pauses. “His steps don’t falter as he turns away and fades into the shadows. He doesn’t look back.” She hears him sigh through the wall. “Chapter 32.” 

The wheels of his chair groan against the floor before his head pops into her cubicle. 

“Honestly, Swan, I should be listing you as a co-writer, not an editor at this point.” 

“It’s your story, Jones.” She mutters, not looking up from her laptop screen. 

“It’s just as much yours! You write half the dialogue. Melody wears your boots and sweaters. You practically birthed Ian’s mother and gave her up for adoption!” He gestures wildly with his hands as he speaks, tugging his fingers through his hair. 

“It’s what editors do. We make changes to improve the story.” 

"Honestly, Swan, why won’t you just let me put your name on the cover?” 

“I signed up to be an editor, not a writer. I don’t want my name out there. I don’t want my work out there. I don’t even write fiction.” 

“You’ve spent the last two and a half years writing fiction with me, Swan!” 

“I don’t want it!” She hissed, finally turning to glare into his widened eyes. “I don’t want to be a writer!” 

He purses his lips. “It feels dishonest to claim your words as mine.” 

“Just do it. Please.” 

He pauses. “If I brought it up to Granny, she’d absolutely insist.” 

“Don’t you dare.” Her tone is menacing, her eyes frantic. 

He studies her carefully with quizzical eyes. “If you let me read something you wrote,” he says slowly, “then I won’t. But it still feels wrong.” 

“I don’t write.” She glares. 

“I’ve seen you. You close documents when I come in, and keep a notebook under your laptop. You can give me a medieval romance or an essay on your favourite colour, for all I care. Just let me read something you wrote. Something that matters to you. 

She’s still glaring when he adds a quiet _“_ _Please?”_

"Fine." She mutters tightly, and his face falls. 

"I’m sorry, Swan. I won’t make you. You don’t have to if you absolutely-" 

"For someone with such a way with words, you never know when to shut up." She stands, picks up her purse and laptop. "I’ll do it. Just don’t.” 

'I'm sorry.” He repeats as she steps around his chair to leave. She doesn't respond, and he watches her swing her purse over her shoulder. “Merry Christmas Eve, Swan.” 

. 

They never ask why the other is spending Christmas break at work, working five full days of early mornings and late nights in an empty office building. They don’t question much about each other. He just unlocks the doors every morning with the key that Granny gave him. He just orders the pizza or Chinese food at six, without asking her what to order. He just bids her goodbye and _Merry Christmas_ as she leaves, without asking if she’ll return the next morning. 

She just keeps coming back. 


End file.
